


Holiday At Home

by ceta346 (orphan_account)



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, F/M, First Kiss, Injury, Injury Recovery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:05:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8568871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ceta346
Summary: Lockwood and Co signs up for what seems like an ordinary job -- until dangerous and unforeseen circumstances seriously injures the jewel of Lockwood and Company, Lucy Carlyle. The company takes a few days of leisure to care for Lucy and celebrate Christmas.





	1. Ms. Alexa Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments, constructive criticism, compliments are all welcome! Comments definitely help motivate me to write!

You would think that Christmas in London is full of festivity. You would be wrong. In the dead of winter, where you can’t tell supernatural chill from a breeze, it’s quite the opposite. Everyone is tucked away in their iron-smothered homes by four o’clock, and only an hour later the sun sets. The only people left after dusk, especially this time of year, tend to be agents.

I was one such agent that night. With me was Holly and Lockwood. They were mostly quiet, thinking, just like me.The cab jerked a little too sharply and I looked up at our driver. He was a big, round-ish man, with unattractive piercings peppering his facial area. I had a guess they were made of lead and silver. He was obviously new at being a cabbie for agents, I could tell in the way his eyes never managed to stay on the road, always straying to the side. The back of his neck sheened with sweat despite the lack of heat in the car.

I caught his eye in the rearview mirror. He grimaced at me and stayed quiet. His next turn was less severe. A few minutes more of driving and silence and we arrived to our destination.

Our client waited inside her home, looking out the window. She seemed to match her home today. Her dark skin and hair matched the wooden sideboards and her poofy sleeves matched the drapes in the iron-barred windows. The cab had barely stopped before we were out with our equipment, and we could barely close the doors before it was off again. I looked over at our team.

Lockwood was polished as ever. His coat had been recently washed, and if I stood close enough, I could still smell the soap. It was routine for him tonight, he wasn’t in anything particularly special. Perhaps his suit was slightly darker than the night before. Holly, of course, was fashionably dressed for winter. She was in jeans, fur boots, a white sweater and a poofy scarf that I was worried would impair her vision. She seemed to make it work, though. Unlike her, I had chosen to wear what usually worked for me. The usual jacket/shirt/skirt combo, with boots, a beanie, and leggings added for the cold.

Our client answered the door before Lockwood could knock.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, ushering us in. “Please, don’t stay in the cold.” Our client, Ms. Alexa Hunt, was a young woman who didn’t seem like one. She dressed in florals and had an odd, warbly voice that was reminiscent of a grandmother. In fact, I’d almost forgotten that she was only a few years older than myself. The woman was in her twenties, only a few years into full adulthood. But her Talents were long gone. As I walked in, she fluttered around me, fussing without actually touching anything.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” She asked. “Tea, coffee?” Lockwood gave her a gracious smile.

“If you could put a kettle on, Ms. Hunt, that would be lovely.” The woman seemed grateful for something to do, and rushed off into another part of the house.

“She seems nice,” Holly commented. “A tad familiar. I wonder if she worked at Rotwell?”

“Wouldn’t know,” I replied. “Lockwood, where do you want to set up?” But Lockwood had left the entryway. I spotted him poking around the dining room slightly down the hall. “Lockwood,” I repeated louder. “Where should we set up?”  
He looked up to me, as if startled. “Sorry,” he said. “I think the kitchen should be fine.” I nodded and motioned for Holly to follow me.  
I opened the door to the kitchen, where dear Ms. Hunt was pouring tea into ceramic mugs for each of us.

“Aww,” Holly crooned. “These are so cute!”  
Ms. Hunt chuckled. “Thank you. I’m a kindergarten teacher, some students made them for me as a christmas gift last year.” She handed me a cup. Painted on it was a amateurly done lion that looked suspiciously like the Rotwell mascot. Holly’s had tiny butterflies all over it. She examined it with a small smile. I looked down the hall for Lockwood, who was currently examining the pictures hung in the hall.

“Lockwood,” I called. “Tea’s done.” He headed down slightly faster, but still remained fixated by the framed images.  
I took a sip of tea. It was bitter, but hot and drinkable. I set my backpack down on the ground, ignoring the the annoyed occupant within.

 _“You ought to be more careful with precious cargo, Lucy!_ ” it complained, as I ignored it and took the last mug from Ms. Hunt. Holly had started small talk with the client. There was really nothing else I could do at the moment, so I closed my eyes and tried to listen for anything I could discern.Other sounds drifted away. For a moment there was nothing. Then, a small metallic hum. Like a TV that'd just been turned on. My focus was cut short by a hand on my shoulder. Lockwood.

“Hello,” he greeted, sitting in the seat next to me and taking a sip from his painted cup. His had something vaguely horse-like and brown painted on it. “Quite a charming house,” he continued quietly. “Have you felt anything?”

“Nothing I’m particularly worried about.” Lockwood nodded, then turned to Ms. Hunt.

“Excuse me,” he said, interrupting pleasant conversation between her and Holly. “Ms. Hunt, it would be most beneficial for everyone if for now until morning, you stayed in your bedroom.” She took a moment to understand, then nodded.

“Just let me do a few things and I’ll be in my bed quick as I can. Good luck,” she grabbed Lockwood’s hand and shook. “Be careful.” I heard the swish of her skirt as she left the room.

“Time?” Lockwood asked.

“Eight-thirty,” Holly answered. “We have some time before any serious manifestations.” Our leader clapped his hands together decidedly, rubbing them together.

“Alright. Shall we review what is supposed to transpire tonight?” Holly reached into my backpack, pulling out a crisp manila folder.

“Alexa Hunt,” she started. “Came to us yesterday with her problem. She has admitted to feeling creeping fear, a chill despite the heater being on, and a mixture of malaise and miasma. The day prior to her meeting with us, she consulted a Sensitive who confirmed the haunting but little else. The Sensitive claimed the presence was strongest in the upstairs guest bedroom, but saw and heard nothing. However, they left the house before eight, so it is possible the visible and/or audible haunting had not yet taken place. If I may add, I learned in our brief conversation that our client has inherited much from her deceased grandmother. She told me that while she doesn’t have a clue why the house is haunted in the first place, it is most likely that it’s one of her antiques.”

“Excellent, Holly,” remarked Lockwood, finishing off his tea. “I’ll set up camp here. Lucy, why don’t you take temperatures all around the house? You know what to do. Holly, go see Ms. Hunt and make sure she’s safely secured in her room before nine, would you?” We set off.

Ms. Hunt’s house was very similar to its occupant. The house was newer, more recently built, but it was full of old things. Overall, the place smelled sweetly stale, and gave me the impression of being inside a cardboard box. The ground floor consisted of a bathroom, kitchen, dining room, stairs and mudroom, all conjoined by a single hallway. All around, the temperature was consistently around fifty degrees. After temperature checks, I peeked in on Lockwood and the Skull in the kitchen. Lockwood had finished unpacking, now the kitchen was lit by two lanterns and securely surrounded with a solid iron chain. In the center of the circle, with Lockwood casually propped against it reading a catalogue, was the Skull.

_“I was getting bored.”_

“I can leave if you want,” I replied smoothly. Lockwood looked up, realized who I was talking to, and resumed his browsing. (Was it just me or was he frowning slightly more than before?)

 _“I thought you came in here to talk to me,”_ the Skull groaned. _“If you’re just here to dote on Locky-poo--”_ I scoffed at his hurt tone.

“Let’s keep it about the job, Skull. Do you feel anything?”

 _“Let’s keep it about the job,”_ mocked the spirit. _“Bet you don’t say that to Lockwood.”_

“Do you. Feel. Anything.”

A sigh of annoyance and resignation. _“A slight presence in guest bedroom. From this distance it’s all I can confirm.”_

“Alright then.” I replied. “Lockwood, I’m taking the skull upstairs.” He nodded and shifted so I could lift it and fit the ghost-jar into the backpack.

I ran into Holly on the stairs. “Hunt’s secure,” she informed me. “Also, I set up a safe space inside the guest bedroom, right by the door for you.”

“Oh, thanks.” I gave her a half-smile, she gave me one back, we parted ways.

“Alright,” I heaved, letting the backpack slip off my shoulders onto the carpet. I dragged it into the chain circle.

 _“Oof,_ ” said the Skull, landing with a thud. _“Oi, what’d I tell you about precious cargo?”_

“I don’t think you fit that description.”

_“Harsh. Needlessly cruel.”_

“Pity.” I took a deep breath and shook out my hands. I heard small bits of conversation from downstairs. I trusted that my teammates would alert me if anything was of concern. But for now, I needed to focus on the haunting. “Can you sense anything now?” I inquired, taking the temperature.

 _“It’s stronger,”_ the skull replied. _“I can hear...breathing. Wait. That’s you.”_

“Take this seriously.”

 _“I am!”_ it protested. _“The details are hard to pinpoint. I don’t see anything.”_

“Poltergeist?” I wondered aloud.

_“Maybe.”_

The guestroom was a vacant space. It was sparsely decorated, with only a windowsill and dusty painting of a mountaintop to decorate the blank walls. There was an antiquated bed positioned in the right corner of the room. That, a trunk, and nightstand were the only furniture. I ran my fingers along the bed, opening myself to all types of sensation. The psychic build-up in the room was almost unbearable. With it, I felt an urgent foreboding. Like something intangible was weighing down on me, making it harder to breathe. It filled the room.

Somewhere in this empty room, there was a Source. I opened the trunk by the foot of the bed.

Good news, there was no body inside. Bad news, there wasn’t anything inside.

“Come on,” I groaned. “Give me something to work with here!” I was starting to get agitated. What could possibly be in this room that was a Source? “I swear,” I muttered. “If it’s the entire bed, I’m going to scream.”

 _“I just want to let you know, I’m rooting for the bed,”_ helpfully added the Skull.

“New rule: only speak when spoken to or if a member of Lockwood and Co is imminent danger.”

The Skull, to my relief, shut up. Before continuing my examination, I considered bringing in Lockwood and Holly before it was too late. Of course, it’s always best to play it safe. I knew that.

Funny thing about Ms. Hunt’s house--it had very plush carpet. Thick enough to hide the sound of footsteps. It encompassed the entire second floor and engulfed the staircase-- the very one I was headed down. And even in my clunky shoes and heavy steps, there was barely a sound.

I noticed this particularly because I didn’t hear Ms. Hunt walking behind me, until I felt a hand wrap around my mouth.

I made a muffled yelp of surprise, my hands flying up to her fingers. Before I could wrench her palm from my face, however, something hard jabbed me in the head. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling intense pain spread across my skull. But I didn’t pass out. The world was spinning, but I was still conscious. I found it hard to breathe, and fell to the ground. Hands wrapped around me, pulling me somewhere. I could find little energy, but I did what I could to resist. The hand was still wrapped around my mouth. Somewhere in my mind I could hear a voice- _“Lucy! What’re you doing? Get up!”_

For a few moments I was still. I wasn’t sure for how long I was there, on my hands and knees, gulping for air.

But I managed to capture my breath, and the scene around me finally came to halt. I was still dizzy, but my thoughts were becoming comprehensive. I was on the floor of the guest room. It was cold. Ms. Hunt was on the bed, kneeling,  
whispering. Before Ms. Hunt could notice me again, I was running to the door, twisting the knob. But it was no use. She'd done something to the door.

“Don't bother, honey,” cooed Ms. Hunt. My head whipped around to her position. My hand not-so-subtly placed itself on the hilt of my rapier.

“What are you doing?” I commanded.

She looked at me and smiled. “Of course you can’t hear it. You haven’t had enough time to develop your Talent…” she closed her eyes and whispered something else. My nostrils flared.

“Ms. Hunt,” I started. “What are you doing?” I walked towards her,

Her eyes opened suddenly, and she smiled. “She’s here.” I shivered, also sensing a sudden presence.

“Skull,” I said. “Status?”

 _“Poltergeist!”_ it exclaimed. I let a breath out. Ghost fog was already accumulating in the corners of the room. Where was Lockwood and Holly?

“Ms. Hunt--"

“Silence.” she demanded. “Be quiet or I will silence you myself.”

Her sudden authoritative tone made me gulp. No wonder she was a kindergarten teacher. Slowly, I backed away from her, into the safety of the iron circle. “What is wrong with you?” I asked her.

Her head looped towards me. “Nothing,” she insisted. “I’m perfect. In fact, I’m more than perfect. Did you know that I haven’t lost my talent yet?”

I shook my head silently. Disbelievingly.

“It’s true. I can hear the ghosts better than ever. I’ve been talking to my grandmother for months.”

It was official. She was crazy. But then-- “Why did you call us, then?” I exclaimed.

“Grandma said she needed some little kids to have some fun with.” Her eyes widened. “You don’t look like you’re having any fun!” She hopped down from the bed, coming towards me. I took out my rapier.

“You stay away from me!” I yelled, thrusting it in her direction. She laughed. In the background, I heard repeated thumping at the door. Lockwood?

I knew with a poltergeist you needed to be in extra control of your emotions. But I was scared. Once you’re scared, there’s no taking it back. You’ve felt the fear. And Hunt, she was maelstrom of feelings. It was no mystery why the wallpaper was peeling with more rapidity every second. Hunt stepped into the iron circle. Outside it, a wind was picking up. I couldn’t bring myself to hit her with my sword. It was different with ghosts, you couldn’t feel an impact-- and she was defenseless. I knew she was dangerous but it didn’t feel right--she grabbed my sword and for a moment, it was a tug-a-war between us. Her hands were cut by the blade she was gripping, but it was like she never felt the pain. Blood was starting to drip onto the floor. Hunt gave one, last tug, and the hilt flew out of my hand. She tossed it to the side and grabbed my face with her bloody hands. Panic rose in my chest. I felt the warm stickiness on my cheeks.

“Get off of me!” I screamed at her, wrenching away from her grip.

But also outside of the chains.

It was like the poltergeist was waiting for me. I barely had time to hit the floor before the floorboards were wrenched from beneath me and I was airborne. For a minute, I was floating. Then, I was being pulled, catapulted towards a wall. Like a rock in a slingshot.

The moment before I collided there was an explosion. A magnesium flare had been thrown at the door, blasting part of it into the room. It was picked up in the poltergeist’s psychic hurricane instantly. Lockwood jumped through the flames, into the room. He was a mess. His dark hair was awry, splinters sprinkled in his dark curls. He was panting, sword in hand. His coat coated with dust.

He saw me, his eyes widened, and I collided with plaster.

It’s the last thing I remember from that night.


	2. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the support, guys! It means a lot, seriously.

I awoke in someone else’s room. It was foreign--yet not unfamiliar. I was in bed, covered in heavy blankets. Blinking a few times, I tried moving. It was a mistake. Pain shot up my back and I winced, laying back into the soft sheets of the bed. I looked at the white ceiling and focused on defogging my mind. It was light out, that much I could see through the window. Cloudy, gray, cold. The old-timey clock on the nightstand to my right read 10:18. _What happened?_ I wondered.

I could remember most of the last night-- the job, Ms. Hunt, the ghost. A lot of it was a blur. But the image of her bloody hands on my face was not. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to remember it too much. My head had started pounding. I waited for the throbbing to recede before opening my eyes again. Now that I thought about it--wasn’t this Lockwood’s room? My face flushed. It _was_. I could see his coat tossed on the arm of a cozy chair in the corner of the room, and foreign artifacts hung around the room on the walls. I was in Lockwood’s room! I’d slept in Lockwood’s _bed!_ “Why?” I whispered hoarsely. My throat was dry, my head started to pound again. I closed my eyes and decided it was better to go back to sleep.

~

I was awoken later that day by conversation in the room. There was a heat pack wedged against my back. Again, I woke up disoriented, but it was less intense this time. I kept my eyes closed and listened.

“Shouldn’t she be awake by now, though?” hissed a voice. Lockwood.

“Patience!” retorted another voice. George. “She has a horrid concussion, severe back sprains, and probably trauma! Not to mention those heavy pain-killers the doctor prescribed.”

“I’m just...worried. You weren’t there, George. Hunt-- she was insane. Really insane.”

“I know, Lockwood. I’m the one who researched her after the case? I’m the one who told you how _and_ why she went completely crazy? Remember that hour-long conversation we had as a company? Holly cried?”

“Honestly, I tuned out most of it.”

“Ugh.”

“Oh George, don’t leave--and he’s gone. Okay.”

I waited for Lockwood to exit. He didn’t. From the sounds I was hearing, I guessed he was sitting down in the chair in the corner. Why I wasn’t opening my eyes yet, I didn’t know. I guess I wanted to know what he did when I wasn’t consciously there. I was almost back asleep when he finally said something.

“Hey Luce. Can you wake up already? I’m tired of sleeping in this chair. Give me my bed back, would you?” He laughed a little. “But, seriously. It’s Christmas in two days. I’d like it if you were at least conscious for Christmas Eve, y’know? It really…wouldn’t be the same. Without you around. Really dampen the mood, anyway. George said that if you weren’t around to eat his turkey then no one would, and he’d have to finish the entire thing, and it’d be really depressing. So. At least have the decency to save us from that.”

I said nothing. Even if I was going to talk to him, I wouldn’t know what to tell him. Information was overloading my brain. Two days till Christmas. It’d been four days on the day of my accident. I’d been asleep for two whole days? According to George, I had a concussion and severe back sprains? Well, I had hit that wall pretty hard. I suppose that’s what had caused all this pain.

Lockwood left the room to go downstairs. I thought about what he’d said. It touched me. He’d said these things with such intimacy it’d surprised me. I wasn’t used to the attention. I laid there for a long while, repeating the one-sided conversation in my head over and over. I drifted asleep to the sound of his voice in my head.

~

The third time I woke up I was determined. My body was renewed with energy and I was antsy to do something. It wasn’t like me to be bedridden like this. Who cares if I was hurt anyway? It didn’t mean I had the right to be lazy and a burden to the company. I whipped my covers off, shivering at the sudden drop in temperature. It was dark out, but I didn’t care. I was awake. It didn’t matter if anyone else was. My back was amazingly stiff, but it hurt a lot less than the last time I had tried to move. My head was also feeling better. I got up with little pain. Nothing too concerning. Taking a few deep breaths, I walked around the room. My legs were shaky, but overall I was fine. I noticed I was still wearing my shirt and leggings from the incident, but everything else had been stripped off.

Then I spotted Lockwood. I nearly jumped out of my skin in surprise. He was curled up in the cozy chair, his head drooped at an uncomfortable angle. A blanket was draped over him like a statue at a museum. It occurred to me I’d been sleeping in front of him. I came closer to him, and tried kneeling. My knees protested, but I kneeled anyways. Placing a hand on what I guessed was his knee, I whispered, “Lockwood.” He didn’t stir. I watched him for a second. He was so still. It was rare to see him unmoving. “Lockwood,” I tried again. No response. If it weren’t for the soft sound of his breath I’d say he was dead.

Maybe it was best for him to stay asleep. I got up, made sure his blanket still covered him, and quietly exited the room. There was light from downstairs. But before I went down, I needed to do something else.  
The climb to my attic room did nothing for my back. It was probably why I’d been stuck in Lockwood’s room. They couldn’t carry me up all the way up there. (I blamed George’s lack of physical strength.) I took a peek out my room window. It’d snowed since I’d been out. Fresh powder covered the ground, tinted blue from the ghost-lights outside. But I couldn’t dwell on what I’d missed. I had a mission. Bending down, I pulled four packages from underneath my bed. One was addressed to each member of Lockwood and Co, plus one for George’s mum. She always came over for the holidays. What had I gotten her again? I racked my brain.

Oh, right, the knitting kit. And I’d gotten George that huge book about afterlife theory and some new shoes. Holly, she’d been easy. I got her some nice girl stuff. Perfume and a few pairs of cute (but cheap) earrings. Lockwood. Now he’d been hard. I’d settled for some rapier polishing stuff he’d talked about once or twice, and some new books. It was hard to gift shop for him, he never talked about wanting anything (he was too selfless for that, I guess), and his interests were so limited. I knew that George was getting him a gag gift of some sort. Holly was getting him an entire new suit, complete with a tie, socks, and shoes (We’d shopped together). I hoped he wouldn’t think my gifts were lame. Next to Holly’s...they probably would be.

No time to dwell on it though. I didn’t know what day it was, but it was near Christmas. And that meant presents had to be laid out, pronto. I did take my time down the stairs, though.  
When I got to the ground level, I was surprised to see lights on. It’d been too dark to see the clock in Lockwood’s room, but I’d assumed it was early morning.

“Lockwood?” came a voice from the open basement. “Thought you’d gone to bed? I even laid a blanket on you. Oh, can I have that back, by the way? My toes are cold.”

I ignored George and went into the kitchen, where our small and rather pitiful christmas tree drooped. There were still presents underneath. Ah, so I wasn’t too late! That made me smile. I placed my gifts under the light of the tree and stood there, for a second, basking in the golden lights and taking in the cheery gift-wrap. The Thinking Cloth on the table was more cluttered than it had been two days ago. Some cute Christmas doodles had been added. I recognized Holly’s loopy handwriting adding some items to the ongoing grocery list. George’s almost unreadable script was hard to make out in the dim light. All I could read was my name. I was trying to understand the rest of his note when he popped in.

“You’re awake!” he said charmingly through a mouthful of scone. Licking his thumb he rushed towards me. “How are you feeling? Is your head alright? How about your back?”

I took a big step away. “George, stop,” I sputtered. “You’re overwhelming me.” He drew back.

“Sorry, Luce. Do you know what time it is?”

“Er, no.”

The last of his food made it down his throat. “It’s three in the morning. You really couldn’t have picked a more inconvenient time to wake up.”

“You’re up too, aren’t you?” My head pulsed and a sudden dizziness came over me. I put my hand out to balance myself. George grabbed my arm softly.

“Really ought to go back to bed,” he said. I shook my head. It made the dizziness worsen. I winced. George gently but firmly led me back up the stairs to Lockwood’s door. I stopped at the door frame. “What?” whispered George. “Something wrong?”

“I can’t...knowingly sleep in Lockwood’s bed,” I replied quietly. George looked at me incredulously.

“You’re not sleeping in your own room, Luce.”

“Why not?” I hissed.

“Number One: Your bed isn’t right for your back to heal. Number Two: Lockwood and I can’t keep watch on you as easily. Number Three: It’s a hassle. Number Four--”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Reluctantly I stepped into the bedroom, more aware than ever of Lockwood still slumped in the chair and the fact that he’d slept in those very same sheets. With George’s help I eased back into bed.

“You sleep now,” George ordered almost silently. “Next time, wake up at a decent hour.” In the dark, I vaguely saw his round form retreat out of the room, and close the door without a sound. When I finally fell back asleep, I dreamed of bloody hands on my cheeks.

~

It was morning when my eyes opened next. I had been woken up by something, but my brain couldn’t yet process it. Touch? No, a voice. No, both. The frozen peas that had been on my back had just been replaced with something else. There was a whispered conversation going on. Someone's fingers were lightly laying on my shoulder.

“I wanted to keep her sleep schedule on time!” George was here. But he wasn't the one touching me.

“Hm.” Lockwood. Oh. Lockwood was the one touching me.

“Don’t ‘hm’ me, Lockwood--”

“Mornin’” I interrupted sleepily. The hand leapt from my general vicinity. I cracked my eyes open and squinted at them in the brightness of the morning

“Close those bloody curtains.” George got up and pulled them shut. I looked over to Lockwood. Maybe it was my morning drowsiness, but he looked bothered. “Alright, Lockwood?” I asked slowly.

“Fine, Lucy. More importantly, how are you feeling?”

“Fresh as a daisy.” I got up too quick and felt a wave of disorientation hit me. Lockwood had to help me steady myself.

“Yeah, well, you certainly don’t look it,” added George from across the room. Pretending like he didn’t exist, I continued my conversation with Lockwood.

“What day is it?” I questioned as brightly as I could.

“Oh! It’s uh, Christmas Eve.” My mouth widened into a smile. Lockwood met my eyes and smiled too. It was just us for a moment. I suddenly grew aware of how close he was to me on the bed, and George looking at us in  
judging silence by the door. Sometime during our conversation Lockwood and I had slightly leaned in towards each other. It was like we both realized all the same things at the same time. It was awkward, for a moment. My face flushing, Lockwood glancing around awkwardly. Us both scooting away. I had an odd feeling swirling around in my ribs. I wondered briefly if Lockwood did too.

Suddenly and conveniently, there was a loud thud from George. He was on the floor, cussing rather profusely. Lockwood practically sprung off the bed. “George?” I asked.

“Stubbed my toe,” he grumbled. “Yowch.”

“No one says ‘yowch’.” I told him.

He looked up at me seriously. “I’m so glad I have friends who empathize with my pain.”

Lockwood pursed his lips. “I’ll uh,” his voice with shaky. “I’ll go get you a band-aid.” I could hear him giggling as soon as he exited the room.

George craned his neck and watched him walk off. Then he turned to me with a smug expression. “Could you and him be any more tense? I swear, if I wasn’t here to break the ice...”

I looked at him accusingly. “What does that mean?”

George’s eyebrows skyrocketed, and he chuckled. “Oh lordy. If that’s the case, just forget I said anything.”

It took me a moment to get what he was suggesting. Lockwood and I--oh, god. Wrong, utterly wrong, I didn’t want to even think about it. “George, gross,” I sputtered. “Why would you even think...?” Lockwood reentered the room, conveniently interrupting my stream of mixed up words as my brain attempted to shut down.

“I forgot what I was doing so I came back here,” He said aimlessly as George got up from the floor. “What was I doing?”

“Getting a band-aid for your injured coworker and best friend?” suggested Cubbins.

“Oh...right. Well, you look fine now.” Lockwood clapped George on the back cheerfully.

George’s expression was less than grateful. “Mum’s coming over for dinner tomorrow, Lucy. I’ll be cooking all day. Holly’s left for her parents. We’ll see her in two or three days.”

“Fun,” I replied, my mood actually lifted. “So it’ll just be us until supper tomorrow?”

Lockwood and George nodded in unison.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend Christmas with.”


	3. Cocoa For Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lockwood and Lucy have a good time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHRISTMAS CHRISTMAS CHRISTMAS CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!! I listened to Christmas Classics playlist on Spotify while writing this, for anyone who wants to get submerged in the mood. Thanks for reading, comments are very appreciated!

Before the case with Combe Carey Hall, our Christmases had been cheap. In fact, before Combe Carey, we hadn’t taken Christmas off at all. Money was just too precious and spare. But now that we had some more money lying around, the winter holiday was a welcome break from our busiest season of the year. Last year, while I’d been away, Lockwood had bought some new Christmas decorations, ones that he was intended on putting up Christmas Eve. He’d meant to put them up earlier, but with all that’s been going on, we hadn’t the time.

Standing in the cold, I looked up at him on the ladder. “You’re sure you don’t need help?”

He replied, “Quite. Well, no, actually, could you please pass up the last string of lights?” I did as he asked and passed it up to him from the cardboard box in my arms. A bitter breeze flew past, and I shuddered. “Almost done,” Lockwood informed me. “Just one last...aha!” He clapped in triumph and started down the ladder. “Lucy, if you would.”

I rushed to the cord hanging from the side of Portland Row and pressed down on the button. Lockwood’s sudden laugh was proof enough they’d worked. “Come see this!” he exclaimed to me. I poked my head around and looked to him. Somehow, his smile lit up his face more than the festive light of the Christmas decor. His hands were on his hips, the example of confidence in a job well done. His dark green knit cap was crooked on his head, I noticed. I could spot little tufts of dark hair poking out from beneath, like a teasing secret.

“Lucy,” he called again, still looking at the lights. I joined him on the cobbled walkway. Forty-five minutes of standing around and handing Lockwood things, and we’d covered every edge of the house’s roof (which I don’t think was very easy) with red and green flashing bulbs. I’d wanted to really help of course, do some actual work, but with my back, everyone had protested. “We can’t risk the jewel of our establishment retiring early!” George had told me. I didn’t bother to argue.

“Looks very nice,” I told Lockwood. “I rather like it.” He smiled even broader, somehow.

“Well, it was a joint effort.” I laughed, he laughed, we stared at our glowing house. The sky was white behind it, bright in the morning. Another cold wind passed through us. I wondered if we should go inside, because I was shivering and George had bought hot cocoa mix and the job was finally (finally) done.

“Aren’t you cold? I decided to ask.

“Not really,” came Lockwood’s easy reply. “Why? Are you?”

“Yes,” I confess. “Didn’t George say something about hot chocolate?” Lockwood’s eyes grew larger in intrigue.

“I believe he did. Shall we investigate?” He held his elbow out with a teasing smile. Happily, I took his arm and we walked inside. The change in temperature was quick and dramatic, colliding with us like magic. Simultaneously, Lockwood and I breathed out in contention. The door was shut and we took off our winter clothes. I was only wearing a (fairly ugly) long-sleeved shirt and jeans under my coat and hat. Dismayed, I peered down at my wet socks. My toes were completely numb, I wiggled them experimentally. Lockwood, on the other hand, was dressed appropriately and preparedly for winter. He had a warm sweater under a fleece pullover. His socks were dry. And Christmas themed, I discovered. His socks were striped red and green, with little Christmas trees planted in the red. He noticed my observation and laughed quietly.

“You like them?” He swiveled his foot stylishly and gracefully, like a model. My eyes rolled on their own. Another laugh.  
I said, “I’m gonna find George.” But it came out as a mumble as I was already moving. It took me a few tries of peeking through doors until I found him downstairs, asleep in a chair, a book still in his hand.

“Aww,” whispered Lockwood from behind me. I jumped, my eyes finding the edge of his jaw centimeters away from my temple. “Hey,” he whispered again. “Why don’t we get some cocoa on our own?” His smile coerced my head to nod in agreement. Quietly, we left George to his dreams and drifted to the kitchen. Lockwood headed to the radio.

“What do you want to listen to?” He asked. “Christmas music?”

“Sure,” I conceded. “As long as it’s the good kind.” Lockwood hit a button. Mariah Carey began to belt out notes. “Lockwood,” I said loudly. “I said the GOOD kind.”

His head snapped back to me. “Are you implying this isn’t a Christmas classic?”

“Maybe in America,” I suggested.

“Mariah Carey is a beautiful human being and I will not be shamed for enjoying her music--”

“Lockwood.”

“Ever since her tragic break up with Nick Cannon, I have been her number one supporter--”

“LOCKWOOD.” It took an effort to keep a straight face. He stopped talking and looked at me, his eyes strangely intense. “I never dissed Mariah. All I meant was we could listen to something a little...older?” I blinked at him and smiled. I could feel his resolve disappearing.

“All I Want For Christmas came out in 1994.”

“You know what I mean.”

Finally, he sighed.

“Okay, well, what do you want to listen to?” He leaned against the counter of the kitchen, as I looked on a shelf of CDs we owned. A few seconds of looking, and I found what I was searching for.

“Aha!” I held a dusty CD in the air. In aged sharpie, it was labeled, ‘christmas classics, lucy’. Lockwood couldn’t resist taking the CD from my hands.

“Didn’t know we had this,” he said to me.”I’ll pop it in the stereo.” Taking a few seconds, the stereo crackled to life. Quietly, Bing Crosby began his serenade. I came over and turned it up. This music reminded me of Christmases past, at my house. Joyless Christmases, they had been. All I’d ever gotten were clothes and other necessities.  
That drab life seemed like another entirely from the present. It was here, in Portland Row, where I felt like Lucy Carlyle, the wanted. It was there I felt like Lucy Carlyle, the burden.

“Hey, Lucy.” I blinked, and looked to Lockwood. He was peering at me strangely. “Frowns don’t suit you very much.” I hadn’t noticed my sudden stormy expression. Slowly, I relaxed my face and shook my head. I muttered an apology. “No need. How many marshmallows do you want in your hot chocolate?”

“Big or small marshmallows?”

“Big.” I held up two fingers and watched him get down all the ingredients. George always insisted on quality hot cocoa, and Lockwood liked the sugar, so we always bought the expensive mix and stirred it in hot milk. People who mixed it with water, according to the boys, were heathens. Slowly, I started to relax in the warm atmosphere. Holiday jazz played in the background, and I peeled off my chilly socks as Lockwood got done heating the milk on the stove. When he set the hot mug in front of me, he took his knit cap off his head and plopped it onto my own. “You looked cold,” he said with a shrug at my alarm. I saw, as he reclined to my right, that his mug was full of marshmallows, and little else.

“Is there even any chocolate in there?”

“I guess I’ll find out when I get to the bottom.” He and I grinned to each other. I held out my cup.

“A toast?” I proposed.

“A toast,” Lockwood repeated in agreement.

Loftily and dramatically, I exclaimed, “To the Queen!”

“To the Queen. I’ll certainly drink to that.” We clinked glasses, a bit of cocoa slopping out of the sides of both. The drink was sweet, hot, and delicious, as always. The heat warmed me inside like little else could. There were a few seconds of, what I thought, was silent and comfortable companionship as we listened to Frank Sinatra. I sipped, Lockwood tried to gracefully eat his marshmallows out of a mug. I took joy in his failing attempts.

After a song ended, Lockwood drained his mug and cleared his throat. “Luce,” he began. “I don’t mind to spoil the atmosphere. But I’d like to talk to you.”  
I looked to him. He wasn’t at all sad, or distant, right now. He was vivid and real right now, and I wanted him to stay like that. It was like I wanted to press pause on my life and replay the last few minutes forever. Lockwood took my silence as cue to continue. The Christmas Waltz began to play.

“Lucy, you getting hurt recently opened my eyes a bit. I don’t even think it was the injury, actually. I think it was--” He paused and chewed his lip. “Right before the incident, when I was trying to get through the door, to you, I had no idea what was happening. But it was the most fear I’d felt in a…” He took a generous pause to swallow and scratch his nose. “Long time. I admit. I was properly frightened. And when you took those days to recover. They were so long. And I spent so much of it worrying about you. Of course, logic told me you would be fine, but you and I both know I rarely listen to that. Anyway, it just...made me realize how much you really mean to me. You mean a lot. To me, to George, to the company. I’m sure even Flo values you. Which, “ he gestured vaguely. “Is saying a lot. I mean, it’s Flo.”

Gently, I laid my hand on his. He had opened his mouth to say more but hesitated as he stared at my hand. I watched his eyes trace my fingers, up my arm, and make eye contact. There were little words I could say to express the flowers blooming in my ribcage. So I just grinned and squeezed his hand. He took a moment to squeeze back. But he did squeeze back. Abruptly, another song started. Puzzled at the sound of a guitar, Lockwood looked to the stereo. “What song is this?”

“Jingle Bell Rock,” I explained. “How come you know Mariah Carey but not this one? It’s American too.”

“Ah…” Lockwood started to snap. “Then I like it.” Goofily, he started to shrug his shoulders to the beat.

“Noooo,” Shaking my head, I tried not to smile. He got up, intent on dancing. I didn’t want to let go of his hand. I raised from my chair. “I’m not a good dancer like you.”

“Nonsense!” Lockwood replied, grabbing my other hand. He laced his fingers through mine. “You dance just fine.” I laughed breathlessly. It was hard to imagine I’d been numb only minutes before. Now, my body seemed alive with feeling. Another bright tune played.

“Oh I know this one!” Lockwood exclaimed brightly. “Are all the songs on here American?” Jovially, he twirled me and sung to the song.

“That’s the island greeting that we send to you, from the land where palm trees sway,” he belted out. His voice was nice, even if he was singing to deep and goofily.

“Here we know that Christmas will be green and bright, the sun to shine by day, and all the stars at night, blah blah blah, don’t know any words,” I joined in. “Mellie click me mock ma,”

Lockwood snorted. “What?”

I stared up at his pale face indignantly. “I don’t know the actual lyrics!”

“Mele Kalikimaka,” he annunciated, as we danced. “Say it.”

“Mele Ka-licky-mock-uh.” He spun me.

“Good enough. Oh, it’s over already?” The trumpets of the next song blared out. His faint smile abruptly fell to a scowl. “No. Oh, absolutely not.”  
I started to giggle as I realized what song had began. Lockwood continued to protest, but did nothing to skip it. In my best deep voice, I sang with the melody. “You’re a mean one….Mr. Grinch.”

“Nooooo,” Lockwood moaned. “I despise this song!”

“What! Why?”

“Because George loves it.”

I laughed. “Suffer through it. It’d be less painful if you were actually dancing.”

“True,” Lockwood conceded. “Hopefully the next song will be more agreeable.” He began to shuffle around the kitchen with me in renewed vigor as I tried to ignore our proximity and how it made my cheeks cherry red. I told myself it was the dancing. When the song ended, Lockwood let out a content cry. “Oh finally. That song was too long.” I was way too aware of how tight the grip of our hands were. George’s comments from earlier were swirling around in my brain.

There was silence as we waited for the next song to start, but it never did. “Is that the end of the CD?” I wondered. It probably was, but neither I or Lockwood unlocked hands to check. I didn’t think either of us really wanted whatever had happened here to end. There were thuds as George made his way up the basement stairs and into the kitchen.

“You two look like an old married couple,” He grunted, surveying the scene. “What, no cocoa for good ol’ George?”

“Lockwood made the chocolate! His fault!” I said fast, running out of the room with glee.

“Oh wow, way to be a team player!” Shouted Lockwood sardonically.”Love ya, Lucy!”

I peeked into the doorway and blew him a kiss before scampering up the stairs.

As I climbed, I began to be aware of how sore my injuries were. Had I overexerted them? My mouth dipped into a frown as I headed up to my room. Maybe rest was the best option right now.  
My attic room was small and cold. Secretly, I wished to be able to dive into Lockwood’s warm blankets again. His bedroom was, after all, meant to be a bedroom. Which couldn’t be said for my own cramped quarters. Quickly as I could, I changed into pajamas and crawled into my sheets. My eyes were half-closed, when a voice said, _“Oh, so you’re just ignoring me now?”_ My face scrunched up and I looked to the window, where the Skull in its annoying little jar perched.

“What do you want?” I asked it. I was a little too content from downstairs to really be cross, but not happy enough to enjoy it’s company.

 _“So hostile,”_ it observed. _“Maybe if you were a little nicer to me we could have more pleasant conversations.”_

“Maybe,” I told it. “If you hadn’t repeatedly tried to kill me, that would’ve happened.”

There was a thoughtful pause.

 _“I heard you and Lockwood were having a fun time downstairs,”_ It said. The usual mockery and smug tone was, however, a little smothered.

“Perhaps.” I allowed. “He and I are friends. We’re allowed to have a good time.”

The Skull grunted back as a way of reply. It certainly wasn’t used to not arguing with me. I wasn’t entirely used to it either. I fell asleep staring at the shine of the silver glass jar in the afternoon light.


	4. Matters Of The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy realizes some things that were kind of very obvious.

 

George had come to wake me up for supper but I was already awake, having holed myself up in my room.

“Lucy,” he told me breathlessly. “Come down to eat.” His chest was heaving dramatically from, what I presumed, was the trek upstairs. I informed him that I wasn’t hungry.

“Lucy Joan Carlyle,” He scolded. “I came all the way up here to fetch you for dinner, and I will not have it be for nothing. I will drag your bum downstairs if I must. My  _ mum  _ is here. And a night early, no less.” He nodded to himself assuredly.”Besides, it’s Christmas Eve. At least eat a little bit of what I cooked.”

Guilt was what got me in the end. Between Mrs. Cubbins and refusing his food, George had me effectively cornered. I sighed loudly and told him I’d be coming down. He flashed me a  thumbs up and turned to go back down to the first floor.

As I tugged on a clean pair of socks, the Skull told me,  _ “Don’t come back in here after dinner with radiation poisoning.” _

“Har har.”

George had just finished setting all the plates down when I entered.

“Hi Luce,” greeted Lockwood. I made brief eye contact as I sat down in my chair. He looked happy. It was warm from the oven in the kitchen, and the overhead lamp covered everything in buttery light. George’s plump and delightful mother was perched on the chair next to him, humming a bad rendition of Jingle Bells. However, with everyone around the table, the room started to feel a tad claustrophobic. George said a short prayer, because it was Christmas Eve. “Amen,” he finished. “Well, tuck in, guys.”

Within five minutes, Lockwood had finished half his meal, George was getting seconds, Mrs. Cubbins was getting thirds, and I had yet to take five bites. My mind felt like an overflowing glass of water. At the moment it was so full--it was hard for me to stomach anything. George’s back was turned, he was scraping way too much turkey onto his plate. Lockwood and Mrs. Cubbins were making small talk. While everyone was distracted, I scraped my food into the trash bin and left the room. I felt like I was going to suffocate.

I didn’t really know what I was doing. But I was putting on my boots by the door, I was zipping up my coat, stealing a hat that either belonged to George or Lockwood, and I was outside. It was after sunset, it was dark, and cold, and I was unarmed. I walked past the iron line. 

My hands were fists in my pockets, and I watched my foggy breath billow out from my mouth as I walked. No one else was around, I was completely alone, and the cold felt refreshing. My head could finally sort itself out.

The first thing I could think of was the dancing earlier today. I had enjoyed it more than I probably should have, as a friend. It occurred to me that I probably wanted to be more than that. Did I like Lockwood like that? The answer wasn’t immediately clear. He was an amazing person, and I cared about him deeply. That was undeniable. He and I worked well together, we were good friends. We trusted each other. He had saved my life, I’d done the same for him. Was this friendship? Did friends do this? I’d never had something like this, a relationship with someone like this. What did I call it?

I didn’t think it was friendship. Not for me, at least.George and I had a friendship. I found a bench and sat on it, drawing up my legs and setting my chin on my knees. The moon was a yellow crescent hanging in the sky tonight. I stared at it and thought about Lockwood. What I liked about him. (His smile, his wit, his mind, his talent.) Why I liked him. (His morals, his loyalty, his courage.) If I liked the idea of being more. (Yes.)

There was my answer. A shaky breath escaped past my lips. I liked Lockwood. How had I never thought about this before? How had it never crossed my mind?

Maybe I hadn’t wanted it to. Lockwood was a tricky thing. What we had right now was good, but it’d been worse and I didn’t want to make things bad again. Like they’d been when I left. God, I didn’t want it to be like when I left. Not ever again. I pulled my hat down on my head farther. It was Lockwood’s knit cap, the one I’d been wearing earlier.

Now that I knew all of this about myself, how could I go back into Portland Row? I wrapped my arms around my legs tighter, and buried my face into my knees. “You are a mess, Lucy Carlyle.” I whispered.

I sat like that on that bench for who knows how long, all alone. I might have sat there all night, I might have fallen asleep there, if Lockwood had not appeared.

“LUCY!” He yelled, a good twenty feet away. I looked at him suddenly, his volume unfamiliar and alarming in my silence. He ran toward me. As he got closer, I saw his rapier flashing at his belt, at least two magnesium flares attached to his person. Considering his skill, he was decently decked out to fight ghosts. Why hadn’t that occurred to me? “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, nearing me. “What were you thinking?” He reached me, and grabbed my arms. His eyebrows were creased and his mouth was a deep frown. His grip tightened. His hair looked dark blue underneath the harsh light of the Ghost Lamps. “Are you--you’re unarmed? Lucy, of all the stupid things! What were you thinking? You could’ve--I thought--”

He couldn’t finish what he was thinking, but I knew. I unfolded myself and wrapped my arms around Lockwood.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly, and meaning it. ”I needed to be alone, to think and...I wasn’t thinking about ghosts. I know it sounds bad.” He hugged me back, hard.

“God,” he replied. “Don’t ever do that to me again. I was-- George and his mum and I were so worried.” He let out a long sigh. 

One last squeeze, and the hug was over. We walked next to each other in the direction of home. “What were you thinking about?” Lockwood asked, halfway there.

“Hm?”  
“You said you came out here to think. What could have you so distracted that you forgot about the Problem?”

I sucked in a breath. “Um...a lot has happened in the past few days. I needed time to process everything and get things straight inside my head. My mind was really...crowded. Do you know what I’m saying?” It was vague, but at least it was honest.  
Lockwood’s hands put themselves in the pockets of his long coat. “Yeah,” he agreed after a second. “I think I get you. Sometimes I feel similar when I have to do a lot of business stuff for the company. It’s a lot of pressure.” He was looking at me, so I looked back at him. “You’re wearing my hat,” he added with a slight smile.

“I just grabbed it on my way out,” I commented with a shrug, pretending not to notice how he had slight dimples. Something I had known for a while, but now took on new meaning.

We reached Portland Row. George was sitting on the front steps in a long puffy coat that made him look like a caterpillar. I was touched that he’d appeared to also be searching for me, though it was tainted by guilt.

“Was dinner that awful?” He exclaimed when he saw me. Laughter bubbled from my mouth and I smiled warmly at him.

“I’m sorry for scaring you guys.”

“You’re alright and that’s the only thing that matters.” said Lockwood matter-of-factly. George nodded in agreement.

I had barely started to open the door when Sherry Cubbins came bumbling towards me, surrounding me in a ferocious hug.

“LUCY!!!” she sobbed. “I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE ALRIGHT!!” She was warm from being inside, and hadn’t been searching with the others for obvious reasons. When she pulled away, I realized that my hands were almost completely numb. I rubbed them together as everyone led me to the kitchen.

“Hopefully you’ll like dessert more than dinner,” George teased. “I made Christmas pudding.” We all oohed and ahhed appreciatively as he revealed the food. The Christmas Pudding was a dark, rich brown color and George had gone as far as adding little red berries and mint leaves for decoration.

“Looks delicious,” Lockwood said to George.

“Heavenly,” George’s mum added, clasping her hands together. “Oh, I”m so proud of my little chef!” She leaned in to hug him.  
“Mum!” George protested. “Let me set the pudding down first!” He dished out the dessert, and I found that I had more of an appetite now than I had earlier. Gratefully, I wolfed down the pudding. It was very, very good. One look around the table determined that everyone else had come to the same consensus.

“Oh my god,” Lockwood moaned with his mouth still half-full. “George, I’m gonna need seconds.”

Protectively, George wrapped an arm around his pudding. “Not before me, you won’t.”

“George!” Sherry scolded, swatting him. “Don’t be selfish!”

With a defeated moan, he pushed it over to waiting Lockwood. He dazzled George with a smug smile as he carved himself a large bite. “Thank you, George.”

Lockwood proceeded to eat the rest of the pudding while George silently grieved at the other side of the dinner table. I surveyed it all with quiet glee. From somewhere, Mrs. Cubbins had gotten out a christmas cracker and was waving it at her son, tempting him to pull it. He, still upset about the recent loss of his sublime dessert, scowled at her while Lockwood eagerly took up the challenge instead. Of course, he let her win, and the prize in the middle (a tissue paper crown) got to sit atop her head. She pretended to be the Queen while George tried to one-up her already bad impression with a worse one. After a few tries, his accent had mutated into one so incomprehensive he sounded like Flo. Apparently it was hilarious to Sherry Cubbins, because she almost fell out of her chair laughing. I found my silence was conveniently covered up by her hooting.

“Where d’you get your sense of humour from, I wonder?” she asked her son, breathless from continuous giggling. “Certainly isn’t me or your father!”

“Muuuuum,” George moaned. 

“Geooooooorge,” his mum imitated, her own measly attempt at copying her son causing another interruption of cackling. Her whole body quaked with amusement.

Lockwood watched it all while licking the pudding spoon, but I wondered if he was starting to feel the same sense of dissociation that I was currently enthralled in. He glanced over at me, and I felt a short spurt of panic that he’d caught me staring at him. He didn’t seem to mind, though.

“Alright, Luce?” he half-whispered under the bickering of George and his mother.

“I’m fine,” I answered truthfully. “Just a little weary.” His eyebrows dropped in concern, immediately making him look about ten years older than he was. 

“Your head?”

“Fine, Lockwood.” I showed him a smile to prove my point. “No need to dote.” His eye roll showed he wasn’t convinced. 

“If you’re going out in the dark of the night, where your wintry death awaits, without a second thought, I’d say my doting was completely warranted.”

Well, when he said it like that, it did seem a bit appropriate.

“At least let me get you some water, or something,” he insisted. “It’d make both of us feel better.”

I begrudgingly agreed. “But I want cider,” I told him, as he scooted back from the table. 

“Your wish is my command,” he replied, complete with a little bow. It made me snort. My eyes were on him as he made the beverage for me. If I was being honest with myself, my head was still reeling from the sudden realization that I very much liked Lockwood. I couldn’t grasp how the thought had never crossed my mind before. Granted, we were usually too busy fighting ghosts, or running from ghosts, or in some other life-threatening situation, for my thoughts to stray very far into the ambiguous emotional realm of thought. It was possible I’d been harboring these feelings for months and never once recognized them for what they were. Until now, that is.

How long…. _ had _ I liked Lockwood in that way, now that I thought about it? It had to have been earlier, before I’d ever left the company. My thoughts turned to Aickmere’s, and the spirit I’d encountered underneath. Surely, my emotions had been far developed at that point for the ghost to have appeared as Lockwood at all. But there wasn’t a single moment that served as a pivotal point in my emotions for him. There was no defining scene, no exact moment where my feelings hit me quicker than ghost-lock. My experience with infatuation and feelings were extremely limited, but logic would tell me that it must have happened slowly. They must’ve started back when I’d first joined the company, and just...snowballed.

Using that logic, I’d always been in love with him. From the first time I’d met him in his eccentric house I now called home. From the first time I’d seen him, and dismissively thought,  _ He’s rather handsome. _

The very idea brought a warm glow to my face.

“Lucy?”

I looked up from where I’d been staring vacantly. Lockwood held a steaming mug by the handle, his eyebrows creased in that way that made him look as if he’d aged a decade in a second. 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he questioned gently, setting the mug down in front of me and placing a steadying hand at my elbow. It was very hard to ignore it.

“Yes,” I answered quietly, swallowing. “None of my injuries are acting up.” That was true. I was not distracted by any of them. Lockwood bent until he was eye-level with me in the chair. He studied me for a few moments, as if he had the power to discern if I was lying to him. I just took the opportunity to look at him.

He hummed in discontent. Clearly, he was troubled by my distractedness, but couldn’t put a finger on what was causing it.  _ Let’s hope he never does, _ I thought to myself.

“Maybe you ought to go to bed,” Lockwood suggested, taking his hand away and standing. “Long, stressful evening for you.”

Now that he’d suggested it, a bed did seem like a wonderful idea. Despite sleeping the entirety of the afternoon, I was ready to submerge myself in my bed covers again. “I’ll just finish the cider you so lovingly made for me,” I answered. "And then I'll retire to my bedchambers like a good little girl under house arrest." He smiled then. It was a smile I wanted to remember. It wasn't the blinding one he used when he wanted something, it wasn’t the mischievous one he used whenever he was scheming. It was a grin that I’d only seen a few times. Gentle and real, and one I liked to believe he specifically reserved for me.


End file.
